


chicken soup for the damaged soul

by hobbitual



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Crying, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Fluff, Hand Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Sick Character, Soup, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 00:54:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6543886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitual/pseuds/hobbitual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>oh god i dont know what this is, i had a terrible day and i needed something fluffy but it turned into something else entirely but it pretty much always does so i really dont have anything to say for myself lmao</p>
<p>please use discretion and reference the content warnings, things get really weird in this one</p>
<p>thank you for reading and i hope you enjoy :^)</p>
    </blockquote>





	chicken soup for the damaged soul

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Куриный суп для измученной души](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8239570) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> oh god i dont know what this is, i had a terrible day and i needed something fluffy but it turned into something else entirely but it pretty much always does so i really dont have anything to say for myself lmao
> 
> please use discretion and reference the content warnings, things get really weird in this one
> 
> thank you for reading and i hope you enjoy :^)

Brock is sick. _Again_.  
  
This time, it's a cold. An incredibly nasty cold that's left a mountain of tissues in its wake. Jack keeps up with the demand for more tissues (demand possibly not being a strong enough word), getting rid of the used tissues as they're thrown across the room and all over Jack's bed.

Brock, Jack thinks, looks pretty fucking terrible. Nobody looks good when they're sick but Brock manages to take it to the next level – his eyes are red-rimmed with dark circles, skin pale but cheeks flushed, and even his hair is limp and looking as worn out as the rest of him. The tip of Brock's nose is red, irritated and sore from blowing into countless tissues. He's sprawled on his stomach on top of Jack's bed, face buried in a pillow. Jack can hear Brock's raspy breathing, entirely from his mouth since his nose is completely blocked up.

“Gettin' germs all over the place,” Jack says amiably, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“You've kissed me in the last twenty four hours, dumbass.” Brock's reply is muffled by the pillow, but Jack can hear the nasal quality to his voice. “Like germs really fucking matter right now. I hope you get sick, too.”

Jack snorts and ruffles a hand through Brock's hair. The touch elicits a growl from Brock, albeit a weak one that quickly turns into a coughing fit. Brock struggles to flip himself onto his back, but when his arms prove too weak to do the trick, Jack helps roll him over and gets a smack in the face by a flailing arm for his trouble. Brock coughs for a few seconds longer before he gets it under control and down to what's closer to hiccuping than coughing. Jack isn't at all surprised when the tone of Brock's hiccups changes from trying-not-to-cough to trying-not-to-cry. Jack takes a quick look at Brock, red in the face from the strain on his body, lips parted and breath coming out in harsh but quiet pants. Brock's eyes are quickly filling up with frustrated tears, but before the first one can fall, Jack pushes himself off the edge of the bed and in one quick motion he's got Brock in his arms. Jack is gentle, trying not to jostle Brock too much lest he start another coughing fit; he positions Brock so his back is against Jack's chest, rubbing a soothing circle with the palm of his hand against Brock's chest.

“Hush,” Jack mutters against Brock's shoulder. Brock is shaking minutely. “If you want to be able to breathe, you gotta calm down a little.”

“I fucking hate being sick,” Brock groans, rubbing at his eye with one frustrated balled fist. His other hand comes up to where Jack's hand is against his chest, lacing their fingers together against Brock's skin. “Why am I always sick? I'm a good fucking person. I don't deserve this.”

Jack laughs against Brock's shoulder and presses a kiss to the too-warm skin. “You're always worked up over somethin', your body ain't gonna be able to catch a break. Settle down for once and maybe your immune system'll pull through.”

Brock readies himself for a comeback, Jack can feel him inhale where his hand is against Brock's chest, but the intake of breath is stuttered. Jack raises his head from Brock's shoulder, looking over to see what's going on. Brock inhales a few times, quickly and sharply, the telltale signs of a sneeze – and what comes next is something Jack isn't even sure _is_ a sneeze. It's more like a yell, similar to how Brock yells on the field when they're working, but wordless and somehow _louder_. It's also accompanied by a spray of mucus and saliva, much to Brock's own disgust if his frantic litany of _ugh_ and _gross_ is anything to go by. Brock flails in Jack's arms, clearly searching for the box of tissues to take care of the mess his nose has left him in. Jack finds it, and while he has the instinctual urge to wipe off Brock's face for him, he hands Brock the box to do it himself; Jack knows he wouldn't get very far trying something like that, even with Brock weak and sick as he is.

Brock pulls out an inordinate amount of tissues, what could constitute as half the box, and vigorously rubs at his mouth and nose. Jack, in a heat of the moment decision, grabs Brock's hand holding the tissues in his own. Brock stills, looking at Jack with questioning eyes above the mass of tissues. Jack gently pinches Brock's nostrils through the tissues. “Blow.”

Brock rolls his eyes but squeezes them shut immediately, complying with Jack's demand. When Brock is finished, Jack squeezes his nostrils shut entirely for just a few seconds; it's long enough for Brock to notice, but all he does is give Jack an annoyed glare. Jack smirks and releases Brock's nose. “Good job,” Jack says brightly.

Brock huffs and flops down on his back on the bed again. The sudden movement makes him cough again, but weakly. Brock groans between coughs, and when his body relents for the moment, he kicks aimlessly until his foot connects with Jack's body.

“I want soup.”

“Do you?” Jack chuckles.

“Yes, asshole. I'm _sick_ ,” Brock grumbles, kicking at Jack again. “Stop being weird and nurse me back to health.”

“No one's bein' weird but you. That sneeze was somethin' else. And,” Jack pauses to grab Brock's ankle to stop him from kicking. “What's the magic word?”

Brock stills his kicking and whines, throat sounding raspy and rough. “Please.”

“Good,” Jack says, and lets go of Brock's ankle. “Already made some.”

Brock is taken aback for a second, but he recovers with a scoff. “For one, my sneeze was a fucking sneeze, and I'm not saying thank you. Get me soup before I die.”

“Don't have much time left, do ya?” Jack says, and dodges an impressively strong kick from Brock. “Alright. Be back in a tick.”

Jack leaves the room to retrieve the soup cooling on the stove in the kitchen. When he comes back, bowl and spoon in hand, Brock is sitting cross legged on the bed with the blanket pulled around his shoulders and on top of his head. Brock's eyes are closed and Jack can see that he's probably got a headache coming on, the stress of being sick catching up to him. When Brock hears Jack come in, he opens his eyes and forces his features into a more relaxed state rather than let Jack see that he's in any discomfort. Jack sits on the bed cross legged himself, facing Brock.

Brock reaches out, making grabby hands for the soup, but Jack holds it out of his reach. It takes Brock a second to realize what exactly this means, and he attempts to irritatedly ask if Jack is serious, but he's caught up in another coughing fit which turns into another sneeze, this one thankfully not as loud as the first.

“Jesus,” Brock gasps, glaring at Jack with one eye open. “You're not feeding me. Get the fuck out of here with that.”

Jack settles the bowl comfortably in the space between his legs. “Yes, darlin', I am. You're not fit to do it yourself, unless you want first degree burns when you start coughin' and it goes flyin'?” Jack smirks at the face Brock makes at Jack's reasoning.

“Why do you have to do this shit every time,” Brock groans, looking off to the side rather than at Jack.

“'Cause I love you,” Jack says brightly, and smiles at Brock's instantaneous blush. “Now open up for daddy.”

Brock's blush deepens even more at that, and while he still can't look Jack in the eye, he opens his mouth for Jack to feed him a spoonful of soup. Jack pulls the spoon out from between Brock's lips and watches as his throat contracts as he swallows.

“Helpin' your throat any?”

“Maybe,” Brock mumbles. He pulls the blankets up to his chin, but leaving his mouth uncovered. “Tastes alright.”

“'Course it does,” Jack says. “Finish it all so you can get some sleep.”

Brock finally looks at Jack then, and Jack is a little taken aback at the softness in Brock's gaze. Brock's eyes telegraph gratefulness, openly trusting and very much in love. It sets off a feeling in Jack, like pity, or maybe remorse, but Jack pushes whatever it is aside to focus on how vulnerable Brock looks in the moment.

Jack feeds Brock spoonful by spoonful until there's about one spoonful of soup left. Jack attempts to get Brock to swallow it but that gets met with a stubborn shake of Brock's head and the blanket pulled entirely over his face. Jack smiles at the sight, setting the bowl to the side.

“Sleepy?”

There's an incoherent mumble from under the blankets that's immediately followed by a yawn. The Brock-shaped lump under the blankets slumps over, and Jack catches a glimpse of tousled black hair across tired eyes. Jack moves the blanket a bit, pulling it out of the way of Brock's mouth so he can breathe somewhat better in his sleep. Jack pushes Brock's hair out of his eyes and runs a thumb down the bridge of Brock's nose, feeling the bumps and crooked parts. He gently pinches Brock's nostrils together and makes an amused hum when Brock sniffles in his sleep.

With a final touch to Brock's cheek, Jack collects the bowl and spoon and brings them to the kitchen to wash. When they're dry, Jack opens the cupboard to put them in their rightful place. Before he can do so, he nudges an amber bottle of liquid with a corresponding dropper further into the corner of the cupboard and sets the bowl in front of them.

Dishes put away, Jack makes his way back into his bedroom. Brock has shifted into a more comfortable position in his sleep, but the blanket is still how Jack left it.

Jack gets under the covers with Brock, gently as he can even though there's no way Brock will wake up at this point. Pulling Brock back against his chest and wrapping his arms around Brock's waist, Jack listens to Brock's labored breathing until the sound puts him to sleep, too.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @ usopp!


End file.
